


A Lion in Wolf's Clothing

by fiendlikequeen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Forced Marriage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tyrion refuses to get Sansa with child against her will, he expects his father will have a plan to get a Lannister heir to Winterfell in her some other way. What he doesn't expect is just how Tywin goes about doing it, or the astonishing way in which Sansa makes herself a part of their game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Novel Solution

**Author's Note:**

> An AU, obviously, and it hovers somewhere between TV/book canon (I have tried to include both, with not a lot of success). Sansa's also implied to be aged up a bit, which is a personal choice and easily ignored. Will switch between Sansa and Tyrion POV, and deal with both Sansa/Tyrion and Sansa/Tywin. Rated M for later smut.
> 
> Also, this begins in medias res, so don't panic.

Tywin Lannister has always meant what he says. And when he vowed that one way or another, Tyrion would get Lady Sansa with an heir, Tyrion had not thought it was an idle threat.

Tyrion Lannister does not always mean what he says. In fact, he rarely does. But when he is sincere, he is wholeheartedly, devotedly sincere. So when he vowed to his father that he would not rape Sansa, he meant it with ever fibre of his debauched soul. It was not only Shae that made him so insistent, nor his own limited affection for Sansa. It was pity for the broken, innocent creature. Tyrion knows that he does not have many virtues – he has not enough fingers or toes to enumerate his vices, and accepts with alacrity the fact that these outweigh his virtues a thousand to one – but he is almost ashamedly, angrily proud of his pity for Sansa.

And so there is the dilemma: both Lannisters mean what they say, but their intents cannot be reconciled. There is no middle ground for them. Most would dismiss this as hardly a dilemma at all – the Great Lion of the Rock will have his way and Tyrion will cower from him as would any man in the Seven Kingdoms with any sense.

But Tyrion is not a man, as the world so gleefully reminds him, but half a man. Nor does he have any sense. Or, rather, he has a different kind of sense. Tyrion is nothing if not clever, seeming to have been blessed with twice the brains of any man twice his size.

So there is the problem: two Lannisters at loggerheads, neither willing to surrender their advantage, neither as frightened of the other as by all accounts they should be.

And so a game begins. Tyrion moves first, and takes proactive measures. With the little influence he exerts, he counsels Sansa to avoid, wherever possible, appearing at court. It is a useless endeavor on so many fronts – Sansa will never listen to him, she already has a dislike of Lannisters and tries to avoid them wherever possible, and, at any rate, it is not as though Tywin needs to see her to remember what he told Tyrion. But Tyrion feels as though he can do little else.

It is his father who moves next, and far more decisively. He betrays his plan in one simple event, but then again, Tywin Lannister has never been for secrecy when it is not require.

The game Tyrion now sees his father playing is true to Tywin’s word but it is not, however, exactly what Tyrion had in mind. He had been expecting some threat: get the Stark girl with a Lannister child or Tywin would remove all restraint he had put on Joffrey’s depravity towards the poor creature and let Joffrey rape her. After all, Joffrey’s own word – that it did not matter _which_ Lannister put a babe in Sansa’s belly – was as true as either Tywin’s or Tyrion’s. Not that Tyrion would ever draw any further comparison between the mad boy and his grandsire. It would be a lie to say he likes, let alone admires or loves his father, but he has enough of respect for Tywin that comparing even a small bit of him to Joffrey’s outright madness seems a crime.

Tywin makes his move one evening, in both the place and time Tyrion expects it least. Tyrion opens the door to the apartments he now shares with his wife and finds precisely the one person he did not expect ever to find standing across from Sansa. There is Tywin, standing perfectly straight, hands clasped behind his back, speaking in a low tone to Sansa. She looks upset – she so rarely looks otherwise – and she is worrying at the sleeve of her gown, biting her lip. Tyrion is reminded in that moment of one of the reasons why he won't fuck her - regardless of her age, regardless of the fact that for all the laws of the land she is flowered and that girls have been married much younger than her, she is still a child.

Tears, unshed, are bright in her eyes, but she won’t cry. Resilient Sansa. Stronger than everyone gives her credit for. Cersei thinks that Sansa’s gentility makes her weak, but it doesn’t. It gives her a sort of benevolent strength, whereas Cersei’s widely known as the most vindictive cunt the court has to offer as a result of what she thought was the _right_ kind of strength.

Sansa looks almost relieved to see Tyrion, which is a first, and he smiles at her before turning his attention to his father, who has turned from Sansa and is now facing him. He says nothing.

“Ah, I see you’ve finally found my chambers, father,” observes Tyrion, with as nauseating a smile as he can manage. His expression does not seem to bother Tywin – he had not really expected it to – but it makes Sansa grimace, either at the deformity of his face or the stupidity of antagonizing the Old Lion.

“You were not able to find me when I lay dying after my heroics at the Battle of the Blackwater, as I recall,” Tyrion blunders on, and now he’s had a rise out of Tywin, a miniscule tightening of his jaw that signals his displeasure. It is a tiny victory. “But I am not offended! You’re here at last, dear father, and that is truly what matters to me.”

His blatant sarcasm makes Sansa flinch and her eyes flicker to Tywin for a moment.

“I came to speak to your wife, not to you,” he says.

Tyrion has noticed that Tywin always calls Sansa by everything other than her name – she is Tyrion’s wife, the Stark girl, that girl, the Key to the North, never Lady Sansa or Lady Stark and _especially_ never Lady Lannister.

Tyrion supposes that it is Tywin’s memory of another Lady Lannister that makes him particularly averse to that particular title.

“A shame, since Lady Margaery wanted to see Lady Sansa this instant,” says Tyrion. “In her solar.”

Sansa’s eyes dart between Tyrion and Tywin, evidently not sure which one to obey. Tyrion knew she would recognize their code – when he wants Sansa to vanish for a few minutes, either for her protection or his business, he will tell her Lady Margaery requests her presence in her solar. She wanders for a few moments, and then comes back to announce that Tyrion is mistaken and that Lady Margaery has not made such a request, whereupon Tyrion can declare he is becoming old and foolish (both of which are the most blatant of lies) and Sansa is absolved of any guilt in the matter.

Now Sansa hovers, arms slightly outstretched, poised to fly from the room but jessed to stillness by Tywin’s authority. It is only when he nods to her and gives her his leave that she soars out of the room.

“What were you talking about?” asks Tyrion. “Pleasant things, I hope. The handsomeness of her gown? The weather? Her brother’s death? Winterfell’s ruin?”

“The necessity of an heir, and her duty as a wife,” says Tywin. He has turned so that he is towering over Tyrion. But Tyrion is used to that. The world towers over him, even the women do. Though he’s always said his height has left him closer to their cunts, which is never something he’d complain about.

“You’re telling her you’re going to force me to rape her?” says Tyrion. He lurches over to a seat by a table and pours himself a goblet of wine. His father looks disapprovingly at it. “Well, I won’t. You know that.”

“No,” says Tywin. “I told her that if you wouldn’t give her a son, there would be other Lannisters who would.”

“You’re going to let Joffrey-” began Tyrion, all his fears for Sansa’s safety flooding into his mind before Tywin cuts him off.

“Not Joffrey,” he says. “Gods know we do not need any of his kind in any other seats of power, especially in the North.”

There is a growing feeling of apprehension clawing at Tyrion’s belly. He takes a large sip of wine, the sweetness of the Dornish red doing little to chase away the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. “Not Jaime, either?”

“No.”

Tyrion is silent for a moment in disbelief. When Tywin blinks and then levels a calm stare his way – and does Tyrion see some satisfaction or pleasure in his father? – Tyrion laughs.

“Is something _amusing_?” asks his father, disgust evident in his voice.

“You?” he chortles. “You? This must be the first time you’ve fucked your way into a new title.”

Tywin speaks and his voice is as cold as steel and he shifts the focus of their words from himself back to Sansa. Tyrion wonders with a fair degree of glee whether he’s made his father uncomfortable. “She will bear you a child – she knows it.”

“It’s hardly _me_ getting her with child if _you’re_ the one fucking her!” Tyrion points out. His goblet is empty, and he refills it. His father eyes him, assuming him to be drunk, which is true. But he knows his father thinks he is far drunker and far less capable of any form of rational thought than he actually is, and this gives Tyrion an advantage. “Defeats the point of marriage, doesn’t it?”

“You’re married to her, Tyrion,” reminds Tywin, as though Tyrion needed any reminding of that fact. “And so any child she has will be, naturally, assumed to be yours. The child will be a Lannister in both blood and name. The specific Lannister who sires the child is hardly important.”

“Then send her Jaime! If any Lannister will do, at least give her the handsome one,” says Tyrion. He waves expansively and slops a bit of wine on himself on purpose – he is not drunk enough to do something that careless, but it is important his father thinks he is. “Make him woo her, pretend to love her, get her with an heir, and then leave her. It would be kinder – not much kinder, but if the distinction is between a rape and a betrayal-”

“Jaime is sworn to chastity as a member of the Kingsguard,” says Tywin. He does not address the rape, only Jaime’s honour.

“Pah!” scoffs Tyrion. As if Jaime is chaste – Joffrey and the other children are a testament to that, but likely one Tywin does not want to recognize and one that even Tyrion does not feel is the best course of action to mention. So he tries a different tactic with sarcasm heavy in his voice. “Evidently chastity and honour are of such concern in this ploy you have to rape another man’s wife _._ ”

Tywin grinds his jaw. “I will not barter my son like a common whore,” he says.

“Cersei would probably argue that you’ve never had any problem whoring out your children before-” begins Tyrion, knowing that even for the Imp he’s going to far, that he’s endangering Sansa with his foolishness.

Tywin’s face does not change its expression, and that is likely the most frightening thing about it. His eyes remain fixed on Tyrion, his mouth remains in a firm line and barely seems to move, even as he speaks. He is as rigid as an iron rod. He does not even blink.

“For someone who claims to have her safety in mind, you do her few favours with your stupidity and recklessness,” he says. His voice is soft, steely, deadly, like the rasp of a sword when you draw it from its sheath.

Tyrion notes that despite family’s motto, one hardly ever hears Lord Tywin roar. He elects to growl his threats instead.

When Tyrion responds, his voice is quiet. He is not quite deferential, but the immediate danger to Sansa as a result of his own brashness weighs heavily upon his mind.

“And if someone discovers that it was not I who fathered the child?” he says, his voice as soft as his father’s but not so dangerous.

“The child need not be legitimate, only proven to be hers.”

“But a Lannister son?” says Tyrion.

“A Lannister son,” confirms Tywin. His voice is flat.

“Then why not Lancel, or some other-” begins Tyrion, though he knows it is pointless to try to change his father’s mind. But as he speaks, realization dawns on him.

“Oh, I see,” he says, and now Tywin’s eyes narrow. Another small victory – Tyrion has discovered something Tywin doesn’t want him to know. “You don’t trust anyone else. You won’t believe that a Lannister cock gave her a boy unless it’s your own cock inside her. And what better Lannister than _you_ ,” he says, his voice a half croon at the end.

Tywin doesn’t say anything. Anyone else would have stopped talking long ago, would have cowered in fright from the frigid gaze of Tywin Lannister, but Tyrion is nothing if not ridiculously foolhardy.

“Or is that you’re lonely, dear father? Want some female company in your old age?” But he leaves it there and skirts away from the likely cause of any loneliness a man like Tywin is able to experience.  Even Tyrion isn’t stupid enough to bring up his mother.

Tywin says nothing, as it is the rare barb from his son that can get a rise out of him. Indeed, it is the rare thing at all that can stir the lion to an outward show of hot fury.

“Well, I look forward to our new family,” says Tyrion. “I will have the pleasure of explaining to my son that he is not only that, he is also my brother, and, as my wife’s son but not mine, my stepson.”

Tywin’s jaw has tightened again, and so Tyrion goes on.

“And that his grandfather is actually his father, and his mother – well, she’s still his mother either way, I suppose – but she’s my wife, your mistress, and your daughter-in-law, all at once.”

“You’ve made your point, Tyrion. You disapprove,” concedes Tywin. His tone is flat, almost bored, and bordering on sarcastic as he goes on. “But my aim is not to seek your approval. It is my duty to maintain the status of the family.”

“Ah yes, the _family_.” Tyrion mocks the very word. “But you’re wrong, father.”

“Oh?” says Tywin. His brows rise, he challenges Tyrion to contradict him.

“I don’t just disapprove. I forbid it. She is my wife and I won’t let you have her.”

Tywin’s mouth would never smile, but his eyes glow with a strange pleasure. He gives a sound of disbelief, a scornful noise at the back of his throat, and departs without another word.

Tyrion watches him go and gives a sigh. Things have become rather more complicated.


	2. Round Blue Eyes

There’s a little bird watching him. A pair of round blue eyes follows Tyrion’s hand as he pours himself another glass of the Dornish red. He is confident than an equally fair ear has heard his words, and Tywin’s, too – but how much of what they said, he does not know. He also knows Tywin spoke to her before he stumbled in to a perverse sort of rescue – but again, he does not know how much Sansa has learned of Tywin’s plans.

Tyrion sighs. He can see a wisp of auburn hair shining some distance away, betraying that Sansa has chosen to conceal herself near the entrance to their chamber. He wonders how long she has been there. He wonders if Tywin noticed her as he left. He wonders when how she managed to return so quietly.

“My lady,” he calls. He swallows the first word in a slur, which makes him sound like a commoner entreating “m’lady”, and also makes him sound much drunker than he is.

Sansa does not come forward. He supposes she is afraid of his anger at her eavesdropping. He wonders why she has not learned that she need not fear him. Something about his family murdering her father and mother and brother, he supposes.

Her fear is sensible, Tyrion knows. Anyone ought to be afraid of a lion, even the runt of the litter. Especially a creature more fish than wolf, despite her name. Sansa’s fear is clever of her.

For Sansa’s not the pretty little idiot Cersei takes her for. It’s one of the many things that Cersei’s wrong about, of course. Sansa is far from empty-headed. She has none of Margaery Tyrell’s sly cunning, or any of Cersei’s violent plotting, which is lucky for Cersei, really. Misjudging Sansa isn’t dangerous. Failing to realize Sansa’s own breed of intelligence won’t get a knife in your back.

It might do something else. Exactly what that is Tyrion isn’t really sure of. But he’s sure whatever it is will only get stronger as Sansa does – after all, even he, who took little interest in her until he was given the task of _marrying_ her, has watched Sansa harden. She’s still somewhat taken with childish pleasures, with beauty and chivalry and songs, but those have given way to harsher realities of life.

With it, Sansa has grown more resilient. And with that resilience has come a cleverness unbeknownst to most.

In fact, Tyrion wonders why more people don’t see it. He supposes they don’t look hard enough. They see Sansa as nothing more than porcelain skin and fiery hair and clear, clear blue eyes. Or else they see her as an asset, the key to the North – his father does, he knows, as do the Tyrells. Neither party particularly cares for Sansa any further than the Stark name that sits so heavily upon her Tully beauty.

“Sansa,” he says to her, rising with some difficulty from his seat. He uses her name this time, and it seems to have a greater effect.

She comes forward, but not in complete obedience with his order. Her eyes are lowered and her lips parted. She looks afraid. She always looks afraid these days, but more often is that fear mixed with a well-masked fury instead of a poorly-cloaked panic.

Her breath is quick and Tyrion is about to speak, to offer some ridiculous comfort, but the words die in his mouth. He thanks gods he has never believed in that Shae is not here to see him gawp like a fish at what Sansa does next.

She looks up at him and he wonders if she’s aware she’s doing it, or if her body manipulates the emotions of others without her knowledge. Her eyes are wide and beseeching – at odds with the previous fury – and her full bottom lip has slipped into the tiniest pout. Her small white teeth, glistening in the light, are pinching at the small, voluptuous curve her lip.

It could be childish gesture, and he saw it once or twice back when she was a happy child at Winterfell, when he took no notice of her save to consider that she was wrong to idolize his cunt of a nephew.

Tyrion doesn’t know if Sansa is aware that her current pout is anything but childish. There is too much of the coquette in Sansa for the gesture to be wholly innocent.

Doubtless, this is by accident, but Tyrion still shakes himself. His head is suddenly foggy and confused and he tries to convince himself that it’s the wine.

“How much did you hear, Sansa?” he asks. He thinks it’s best to sit down again. He’s dizzy and thinks he won’t have much luck with Sansa if he faints or throws up on her. Vomit has never been his preferred method of communication, though he’s used it often.

He gestures to Sansa to sit across from him. She does.

She seems reluctant to speak. Her mouth opens but she says nothing.

“I don’t blame you for listening in – I congratulate you,” he says. He toasts her expansively with his glass and sips at it, having noticed that his fogginess has vanished with Sansa’s pout. “I admire your budding cunning, my lady. But how much did you hear, Sansa? And what exactly did my _beloved_ father tell you?”

Sansa flinches. “My lor-” she begins to protest.

“Tyrion,” corrects Tyrion.

“Tyrion,” she amends. She pauses before she goes on. Tyrion knows she must have heard at least the thrust of his argument with Tywin if she is so uncomfortable. “I know I must…bear children.”

“And?” says Tyrion. He’s beginning to doubt that she heard very much, or that Tywin was very specific in explaining what exactly it is that’s about to happen. That’s a disappointment – he doesn’t really much look forward explaining to Sansa what Tywin’s got planned for her.

“And…” says Sansa, and lets her head drop. Her hair has fallen over the ivory expanse of her slender chest. One small strand has curled tenderly along her collarbone and now hesitantly, coyly, extends down the front of her dress, delicately teasing at her breast.

As Tyrion blinks and tries to shake his befuddled mind back into sense, he notices that she has begun to undo the ties on her dress. Tyrion realizes that he’s overestimated Sansa’s wit.

“No,” he says. He reaches forward and stays her hand. She stills instantly, her long fingers turning to stone at his touch. She does not flinch away, but her hand is cold.

“But my l- Tyrion,” she says. Her protestation is weak. She is evidently not unhappy that he stopped her in her attempt to seduce him. He can’t say he blames her. “Lord Tywin said – he said – it was my duty to bear you a child. That if I would not have you there would be another Lannister who would get me with an heir – another Lannister – Joffrey – and I’d rather you than-”

Panic has choked Sansa’s words and made her a child once again. Her face is white as milk and she is trembling all over as the words spill out of her mouth. Tyrion dares to take her hands again to silence her, and she does not draw back. Her skin is warm this time.

“Not Joffrey,” he says. He’s not offended that the only way in which she’d ever willingly let him fuck her is to save her from the king – not very hurt, really. He’s long hardened himself to the disgust his form provokes in others.

At his words, Sansa’s relief is evident. Her cheeks flush once more and she looks less like a corpse than she did. before Her pale lips redden and part with an indrawn sigh.

“You really heard so little of our conversation, didn’t you? For shame, my lady, I shall have to teach you to spy better,” says Tyrion. He smiles as he says it, and dares to hope for one in return. “You must learn the ways of cunning, Sansa.”

Miraculously, he gets it. A little quirk of Sansa’s lips satisfies him that his quip has given her even the briefest amount of pleasure.

“Not Joffrey?” she says again, as if to make sure.

“Not Joffrey. My father shows deference to his king, but he doesn’t trust that idiotic little shit to sit on a privy seat the right way, let alone handles such a delicate matter as this,” says Tyrion. He makes a note to amend his language in front of Sansa in the future. The swearing evidently offends her.

“The delicate affair?” says Sansa.

“Of the North, my lady. Of an heir to Winterfell,” says Tyrion. He says nothing else. He won’t be the one to remind her of the savagery done by lions to her wolf-pack.

Sansa’s head jerks sharply and, for a moment, her eyes are hard as steel when they meet his. But the expression is gone nearly as quickly as it came and her face softens in fear again.

“But if not Joffrey…” says Sansa. Her head drifts to the side, her eyes roving past him in a dreamlike stare. Tyrion wonders if the girl is cataloguing every Lannister in her mind. He doubts she is considering the one who has picked himself out for the task. He decides it’s best to be blunt.

“There’s only one man my father trusts, I’m afraid.”

Sansa’s head snaps up again. Clever Sansa – she’s evidently figured out the only man that could possibly be. Still, Tyrion thinks it’s best to name him.

“The Great Lion himself,” he says. He hopes that mocking his father’s title with soften the blow.

It proves to be as effective as sheathing a greatsword in silk. Sansa blinks, opens her mouth, and shrinks back. But considering the news she’s just received, Tyrion is impressed she hasn’t fainted.

“Lord Tywin?” she says in a tentative whisper.

“So he thinks,” says Tyrion. “But Sansa – I won’t let him. We won’t let him.”

Sansa nods absently. He doubts that either of them truly believes they’ll be able to stop Tywin for long.

Still, Tyrion has resolved to try. So he rises and extends his hand to her.

“Come, wife,” he says, and puts a little mocking flourish on the word to set her at ease, but also to remind himself of his vow – she is his by right, and not Tywin’s. “I’m not yet drunk enough to be unable to walk. I’d like to take advantage of that for the time being – let’s go see the sunset over the Blackwater.”

Sansa does not protest, and tamely accepts his hand in helping her to her feet.


End file.
